


A Summons of Another Sort

by holhorsinaround



Category: Original Work, World of Warcraft
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 18:54:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7903840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holhorsinaround/pseuds/holhorsinaround
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alar learns of his summons to the Broken Isles no less than a week after promising Tyrestra he wouldn't go. Self reflection and anger abound.</p>
<p>Everything has to get worse before it gets better, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Summons of Another Sort

Alar stood on the porch in front of the Wyvern's Tail in Orgrimmar, an envelope in his hand after having checked his mail. His lips were pressed together and his hands shaking--he hadn't yet opened it.

What was inside was the response he'd be receiving after providing a plea for staying on known Azeroth soil--i.e. Kalimdor, or, at best, Eastern Kindgoms, rather than heading off to the Broken Isles to fight the Legion.

He desperately did not want to go--Ratchet was still under siege and he hadn't been there in at least week. Demon outbursts were still abundant in the major cities. Aside from that, he didn't feel comfortable nor did he agree with the 'commander' title that everyone seemed to unanimously agree upon calling him recently.

Even Tyrestra had started a fight about it, though he didn't blame her. She hadn't meant to, she was just worried. He didn't want to leave Kalimdor. Actually, truth be told, he wanted to be right back in Ty's bed. He didn't want to wake up and handle anything that was happening on Azeroth. He wanted to sleep through it.

Instead of that, though, he was standing in Orgrimmar, bleary eyed and exhausted, peering around like the person next to him was potentially a demon.

It had happened.

He leaned into the wood of the Tail and brought a hand up to his brow, sighing. Better now than never, he had to open the envelope at some point.

He did just that, tearing along the glue. He pulled the paper out and gulped as he unfolded it.

Denied.

He widened his eyes, reading a second time.

Denied.

The word stood against the check box, red, stamped on. He gripped the paper in his fingers, paper crinkling, his free hand running through his hair quickly.

That couldn't be right--the Orc said she'd do what she could. He'd posed a very solid argument stating his skills would be best in handling sympathizers and opportunists--in fact, he knew of some details already that could be looked into, including the interrupted and looted supply lines that Gearbloom Shipping ran, among others.

He'd offered these suggestions. He'd offered his skills. He'd even offered the small crew who worked for him.

Denied?

He felt bile in his throat and pulled his hand to his mouth, fighting the urge to vomit off the side of the porch. He slid down the wall and leaned against a crate, his hand pulling back up to his eyes. They were still wide open.

He glanced further down the paper. Names of people he'd be working with. Date they'd be shipping back out to the Isles.

His head spun as he felt the bile again. He scooted away from the person near him talking in a high pitched voice (he hadn't noticed her come up, how long had she been there) and stumbled off the porch. He walked quickly through the Valley toward the Drag and stumbled into a tree near the side of the road, moved behind it, and fell to his knees.

The vomit came quick, the paper and envelope floating to his side in the grass. He leaned back, squatting on his feet, and brought his wrist to up to wipe his mouth. "I can't," he began to mumble in slow repetition, very quietly, his spoken tongue falling back into Zandali, rare in that he only did so when prompted or when overcome with emotion.

Tyrestra would kill him. He'd promised he'd do everything he could. He'd stay in Kalimdor. He'd do his best.

His vision blurred and he felt a sting in his eyes. He brought his hand up to his brow and pressed his palm against his eye. It felt warm, wet.

One year ago exactly, he could not have cared less about leaving. He felt bitter in his stomach; burning, painfully bitter. The worst part was that he didn't even know if he'd get to see Tyrestra before he had to leave.

He helplessly reached around for the paper and glanced back at the date: next week. He muttered a curse, bit his tongue. He closed his eyes and let the paper fall to his lap. He leaned to the side, his shoulder against the tree, and brought both hands to his face.

It only made sense, he thought. He'd finally figured out what he'd wanted. His life was looking up. Thirty years, he thought. Thirty years and everything was looking so much better and he'd found what and who he truly wanted. And what and who he truly wanted was across Azeroth in Silvermoon, with no idea that he'd be leaving for the one place he'd promised a week before that he wouldn't go to.

It sucked, he thought. It really, truly sucked.

**Author's Note:**

> Considering Legion drops next week, I just felt like ruining my night. I'm going to bed very sad as soon as I hit post. Fun fact I almost made myself throw up while writing Alar's reaction.
> 
> Rough stuff my dude.
> 
> Anyway I got me a MIGRAINE i'm goin to bed while alar cries against a tree


End file.
